


Of Monsters and Men

by nookienostradamus



Series: The Hearts of Men [4]
Category: The Alienist (TV)
Genre: Adult Sex Workers, Affection, Anal Sex, Apologies, Discussions About Having Children, Flirting, Gore, Humor, Infatuation, John Gets Unexpected Sex Ed, Laszlo is a feminist, Literary References, M/M, Masturbation, Mention of Animal Death, Murder, Mutilation, Peril, Period-Typical Homophobia, Poverty, Psychology, Reference to Episodes of the Show, Teasing, The Isaacsons are PROUDLY Jewish dammit, True Friendship, True Love, canon minor character death, dead children, lying, mention of animal cruelty, mentions of child abuse, mentions of underage sex work, opera - Freeform, self-deprecation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 12:36:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15096863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nookienostradamus/pseuds/nookienostradamus
Summary: The killer Japheth Dury has been pushed out of his home and is on the run. Soon, his path and that of the investigation partnership will cross, and no one can predict the outcome. As the confrontation draws near, John and Laszlo must face both the monster that has haunted New York's streets these many months...and the possibility that one or the other may not survive the encounter.





	Of Monsters and Men

**Author's Note:**

> This final installment has some notable plot departures from the show and book. As usual, I try not to retell scenes that show viewers have watched or readers have already experienced, but to show what happens "in between."
> 
> See the end notes for translation of more wonderful 19th-century slang, as well as some historical notes.

Both Dr. Laszlo Kreizler and John Schuyler Moore recoiled from the sight of the object that Sara Howard had been keeping under a scrap of sackcloth—though for very different reasons.

“Holy Hell!” John shouted, reflexively clutching the lapel of his jacket. “Are those—?”

“The eyes of his victims, yes,” said Sara, prurient excitement lighting up her face.

His expression as appalled as John’s, Laszlo spoke then: “You _took it_ from his _home_?”

John, meanwhile, turned away, trying not to retch as bile rose in his throat. He had no doubt that Sara wore a look that was at least slightly smug upon witnessing his distaste. She was of strong constitution in the presence of even the most frightful scenes. John was glad to accept his aversion at that point. All he wanted was to undo having seen those lidless eye-balls floating in a jar of cloudy liquid. Though sightless, they all seemed to stare, to condemn the partnership’s failure to catch Japheth Dury.

“He’s on the run now,” said Sara, with her accustomed confidence. “He knows he can’t go back.”

“I suspect you may have spurred Japheth to greater desperation,” Laszlo said.

John looked back up in time to see Sara’s expression go stony.

“And that is to our advantage,” Laszlo added—quickly—before she could set up a God-Almighty ruckus at his condescension.

“How so?” asked Marcus Isaacson, whose typically pale face was sun-burnt from his journey to Utah. Ever the sensible and predictable brother, Lucius looked as if he had managed to stay underneath the brim of a hat.

Laszlo braced his elbows on the desk-top and steepled his fingers. Only John might have noticed the stiffness in his right arm, the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth as moving it caused him pain. “A desperate man is one who makes mistakes,” he said. “Before now, Japheth had time to be calculating and methodical with his killing. To plan ahead. Now, he is forced to think from moment-to-moment, and that can cause even a sane man to stumble.”

“I thought you told me he wasn’t insane,” John protested, trying to keep the pinkish jar of formalin and its tumbling eyes out of view.

Laszlo held up a finger. “I said I believed he _saw with clarity_. A phantasm or hallucination is no less clear to the seer for his mind being unsound.”

“Right,” John said, somewhat peevish. They had been called from Laszlo’s house to this excited—if macabre—gathering at Number 808 precisely as John had been indulging a prior fantasy and sucking on Laszlo’s finger-tips one by one. Laszlo had blushed and writhed in his chair, tense and panicky lest Stevie return from the carriage house.

It wasn’t that John would give over his responsibility to the resolution of this case, to end the string of victims. Having only recently seen Joseph and his rag-a-muffin street companions, he had as much drive as anyone there to see Japheth stopped. Yes, even when in thrall to that damnable second head that so often directed a man’s actions.

Chasing down any possible connection between Japheth and the tenement-dwellers, Sara and the Isaacsons had puzzled out that he most recently worked as a debt collector for local toughs. Such a position allowed for access to homes...and to _children_. Although, John figured with chagrin, those suffering children might not have minded seeing a bit of violence inflicted on their abusive patriarch for once.

Sara, Lucius, and Marcus had traced an old address for John Beecham filed with the Census Office, finding he had worked as an enumerator back in 1890. The landlady at the property was surrounded—as were many older widows with grown children—by the eerily infant-like cries of many pet cats. She had told them Japheth was a charity worker.

John brought a hand to his aching head. “Good Lord, but the man changes professions as often as…”

“As you change lady companions?” Sara piped up.

He shot her a foul look.

“It is to be expected,” Laszlo said. “I mean Japheth, of course. Not John. We have seen him transform and adapt since Giorgio Santorelli’s murder. He took both eyes but left the heart, as opposed to his butchery of little Ernst. It can only be assumed he may change again if he is not apprehended.”

The old matron’s house, Marcus said, had reeked sharply of urine. Except for the one in which Japheth had resided, where lingered a sickly-sweet scent. They had discovered a broken and half-mummified feline body below the floor-boards under the bed. It was left where it lay, with the landlady none the wiser.

From there to a young teacher, and then on to a near-toothless man who employed Japheth as a heavy. He informed them that “Beecham” was no man to toy with—apparently large in stature in broad, as well. The facial tic, if as extensive as described, would have scared the life out of a debtor. Sara and the Isaacsons, showing no hint of intimidation (at least in their re-telling), had then tracked the killer to his very nest, where the grim discoveries had been made.

All in all, John had to admit it had been a stunning piece of detective work. Surely, no mutton-shunter like Connor or those loyal to Byrnes would be capable of pulling off such a trick.

At last, the final machinery had been set in motion. Stil, John would rather not have been pulled from pleasure for the sake of an honest-to-goodness, God-damned _jar of eyes_.

“There is, if you’ll pardon, yet a further horror to account for,” Laszlo said, leaning back in his chair and shaking his head.

John sat up straight at this revelation, looking to Laszlo to name it.

Sara nodded gravely, but said nothing.

“What do you mean, then?” asked John.

“Look at the jar,” Laszlo told him.

A grimace. “I’d prefer not to.” Still, he swallowed against his rising gorge and turned to face the thing on the table. It was a large pickling jar, the glass blurred in places where finger-prints had collected. So many greasy prints could only mean that Japheth often handled his nauseating keep-sake, as a woman might an heirloom from a fondly remembered relative. The eyes, many with their stalks still attached and floating, so crowded the jar that they could hardly be counted.

“Giorgio, Ali, Ernst...” John started, his disgust rising as he named the dead boys. “Even with the Zweig twins…” He paused, horror-stricken. “Oh, merciful God…”

“Precisely,” Laszlo said. “Far more eyes here than could account for the victims we’ve found. Who knows how many more are forever lost, buried or swept out to sea?”

Solemn now, Sara added, “And how many before he began collecting the eyes?”

John made a noise of desperate repulsion. “Could you cover that thing, please?”

Obliging, Sara once again slipped the sack-cloth over the nightmare jar.

Although the ramifications persisted, John could breathe more easily with it out of sight. “A monster,” he said.

“There is nothing super-natural about him,” Laszlo said. “He was created by man.”

“A golem,” said Lucius, wide-eyed with hands clasped before him.

“What?” asked John.

“Hebraic legend,” Laszlo said, looking briefly to the brothers for affirmation. Both nodded. He went on: “A being of clay or earth given breath of life by man to do his bidding.”

“Japheth’s mother told him he was a beast,” said Sara, “so he became one.”

“And George Beecham,” Laszlo added. “Like Miss Shelley’s _Modern Prometheus_ , Japheth turned on his makers.”

“You can’t torment a dog behind a gate and then expect him to heel when the gate is opened.” This sage addition came from Marcus. John mirrored Lucius’s look of approving surprise.

“Man today believes that the word ‘monster’ means mis-shapen or cursed,” said Laszlo. “But the root of the word is Latin. _Monere_. ‘To warn.’” He looked out of the window onto the street that buzzed with loud, stinking throngs. “Japheth Dury is an admonishment. A judgment on humanity.”

John huffed softly in comprehension. “He’s showing us truth,” he said. “Move a stone in the garden and you’ll find dark, crawling things underneath. New York is the stone.”

“Indeed, John,” Laszlo said. “And possibly all of mankind.”

Into the contemplative silence that followed came the shuffling of Marcus Isaacson’s feet. Lucius, in turn, cleared his throat. Obviously, the gruesome exposition was not over.

“We found this, as well,” said Marcus. He produced from a small sack a heart-shaped container crafted of _découpage_ on paste-board.

The packaging made John that much more fearful of its contents. As it was opened, all peered inside. John could not identify the withered, black lump; it looked like an apple left too long in a dry cupboard. Japheth being who he was, John had to assume it was much less innocent.

Using the end of a Morris G. Moore safety pen, Laszlo prodded at the thing. With a gentle nudge, it turned over in the bottom of the box. “Ah,” he said.

“What is it?” John asked.

“A heart,” replied Laszlo. “Most likely human.”

“From the Lohmann boy?” John asked.

Laszlo shook his head slowly. “It’s far too old. And though it may be cold comfort, the size indicates that this was the heart of an adult.”

Sara gasped softly. “In New Paltz, the doctor told me the Dury woman's heart was removed.”

Laszlo nodded. “We may be looking at, if you’ll forgive a colloquial observation, the part of his mother Japheth wasn’t sure she possessed.”

John sniffed, _thoroughly_ finished with the ghastly business at hand. “Until he cut it out of her.”

At Laszlo’s word, Marcus replaced the lid on the keepsake box.

“These should be transported to police headquarters as soon as possible,” said Laszlo. “They will be both telling and invaluable during Japheth’s trial.”

Smoothing back what hair he had left, Lucius donned his hat. “I admire your intention to take him alive, Doctor. But I have my doubts that he’ll allow it.”

Laszlo’s response was subdued. He only gave a soft _Hmm_ and nodded.

John knew the idea of probing the man’s mind before he went to the gallows was tantalizing.

“We cannot say, any of us, how we’ll react when confronting our own mortality,” Laszlo said.

To that, Lucius could offer nothing more.

It was John’s silent wish that Japheth Dury would choose death over capture. He and Laszlo had only begun to explore the possibilities of their new-found romance. He knew he would begrudge his lover any time spent picking at the brain of a madman. Though always been keen to support Laszlo’s work and his dedication to it, his study of Japheth would steal moments that they could be dining together, walking, talking over brandy, in bed touching and tasting one another. Hell, even drowsing through another damned opera.

Pressing his lips tight together, John said nothing of this. He merely retrieved his hat and strove to prepare himself for the climax of their investigation...whatever it held in store.

*

John went ‘round the Slide the following evening, curious to see whether Joseph had taken seriously his advice to find a rooming-house. He asked around with some of the other boys (or girls, as some did prefer to be addressed by their chosen feminine names). It made a kind of sense, even if they did shed their corsets and petticoats by morning. John likely would not want to keep a name bestowed by a cruel parent. Which made Beecham-or-Dury all the more puzzling to his layman’s mind.

A boy, who called himself “Maria,” but who told John his real name was Raúl seemed eager enough to talk. Raúl said no one had seen Joseph on the street or in the disorderly house (at least this one) for a day or two. John wanted very much to take this as a good sign, but something shadowy slipped around in the periphery of his mind. One could not be so close to such crimes and come away pristine. It manifested as fatalism, suspicion of his fellow man where once there had been trust, accumulating like dust in a neglected corner. The memory of his brother waited there. If the residue became too weighty, John, too, would drown.

When John turned to leave, Raúl pitched his voice high again and held out a hand, palm facing toward the filthy street. The nails were manicured and lacquered, but the bony fingers spoke to poor nutrition. “Five cents and I’ll pull you off,” said the boy. “My hand’s softer than any lady’s.”

John grimaced. He fished a quarter-dollar from his trouser pocket and handed it over. “Don’t go with anyone else tonight.”

The knobby hand closed over the coin and snatched it away. Raúl—or Maria—huffed and walked back into the bar-room, exaggerating the swing of his narrow hips. He might very well give over all the money for a tidy pile of dust to put up his nose before heading out again to work the crowd.

On his way westward along Bleecker, John approached the Fordyce Baths, a place not much more reputable than the Slide. There, he was forced to the opposite sidewalk by a grumbling crowd gathered by the entrance. A couple of roundsmen with night-sticks stood flanking the doors and throwing out menacing looks.

His heart leaping into his throat, John shouldered his way through to the door and brandished his press identification. The two cops frowned but let him pass. Perhaps they had no stake in Roosevelt’s failure or success, or they simply didn’t care. Inside, John stumbled through corridors that smelled increasingly of salt, water, and sweat. By the time he reached the rotunda and the main bath, he could barely see.

A photographer and two officers were crouched around a pale figure. One sallow arm dangled over the lip of the bath, its fingers submerged. John dug his own finger-nails into his palm to keep from stumbling. When the photographer stepped away, the boy’s face was revealed. He had sandy hair in wet curls, but the smudges of dark hair on his upper lip and chin meant he had to be at least fourteen, if not older.

John’s sigh of relief was covered by the blast of flash powder from the photographer’s lamp. A spark fell and sizzled on the dead boy’s forehead, leaving a black pinpoint.

As John leaned in closer, he saw that it was not the darkness of the facial hair but the paleness of his skin that made it stand out. Indeed, he had never seen a human being so white, even after seeing his mother ravaged by consumption. The boy seemed to be sculpted of candle-wax or marble—as though an artist had smuggled in a tasteless _homage_ to Japheth’s work in order to frighten the sinful.

The illusion was only momentary. When one of the coppers lifted the dead boy’s hand out of the water, his head lolled and his eyes fell half-open. The irises were dark blue-gray, the sclera shot through with lines of bright blood. And the wound on his abdomen... _sweet Christ_. Deep enough that it made the upper and lower half of his body appear to move independent of one another. The gash lay concave, emptied. Japheth must have taken much of the boy’s innards with him.

John gagged, pressing the back of his hand against his mouth. He managed to choke it back. “Are his—?” he began, posing the question to any who would answer.

“Bits gone?” finished the cop who had moved the boy’s hand. “Aye. Just like all the others.”

But he wasn’t like the others. This John knew well. Both eyes untouched. The heart still possibly intact. The body void of blood and yet none in the water or the floor. Its tiles glimmered faintly under the darkened stained glass dome. John was reminded of the pond leeches he and brother used to pick off their legs after swimming. Having never seen the man, he imagined Japheth Dury as one of these, but man-sized and terrifying. Everything having to do with him was over-sized, heavy and cumbersome. A man could go mad from it. John felt fortunate not to have to bear the burden alone.

Trying to push these fresh horrors away, he left the coppers to their unhappy task and fought his way to the street to find a cab.

*

All gathered at Number 808 as gray twilight swallowed the last of the sunset. As he reached the top stair, John scanned the room. Neither the jar nor the _découpage_ box were visible. He thought the air within might seem different, but nothing felt out of sorts.

No one had returned the trophies to Japheth’s hovel. They were still in the room somewhere, tucked in a cabinet or secreted in a drawer. Just like their owner, working just below the level of their perception—but no less real or dangerous for being hidden.

He briefly relayed to the others the details of the scene at the bath-house. It remained unclear whether Japheth had taken the heart or where the body had been bled out. John had not been able to see the boy’s neck clearly, but he dearly hoped he had perished from throttling like the others. _Better that than alive and sensible as Japheth began to cut..._

“We should inform Roosevelt,” he finished, then nodded toward Laszlo, who nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “But Sara should do it. Of all of us, she has the highest standing within the police force.”

Sara, clearly pleased but trying to suppress it, said, “And even that very low indeed.”

“You have Commissioner Roosevelt’s ear,” said Laszlo, settling the matter. He asked Lucius and Marcus to visit the mortuary and try to get access to the corpse if they could. Even a name would be helpful. “As for John and I,” he said, “we will return to the baths. Try to trace a path to the place where the boy was killed.”

On the street below, given cab fare by Laszlo, Sara, Lucius, and Marcus pulled carriages and sped away in all directions. Laszlo stood by the steps of his calash for a few moments, watching the hansoms disappear into the gloom of night.

John was about to question him, when he spoke: “Stevie, if you please, take the calash home and make sure Frederick is put up for the night. I won’t be too long.”

Stevie, canny as he was, narrowed his eyes and shifted his gaze between the two men standing on the sidewalk. After a second or two, he gave a crisp nod, clicked his tongue, and tapped the reins against the gelding’s dark haunches.

John turned to Laszlo and raised his eyebrows as Stevie rode away.

“No time for idleness, I’m afraid,” Laszlo said, the barest hint of an upturn at the corners of his mouth.

John swore the man could read his mind. It was discomfiting at best.

“I won’t put Stevie in harm’s way. I risked too much with Cyrus,” said Laszlo.

“Oh,” John laughed, “but you’ll risk _me_ , will you?”

The way in which Laszlo clapped him on the shoulder was far too boisterous and comradely to be anything but affected. “You’re a capable man, John. And uncompromised. Not a drop of liquor about you.” His smile was smug and teasing. “That I know of.”

Rolling his eyes, John sighed. Still, the look he gave was fond. “Laszlo, you old rib. Don’t get on me for spilt beer on my trouser-leg if you’ve got wine on your ascot.”

“I forgo a tie when imbibing,” Laszlo said in clipped tones. “Just as you forgo your trousers.”

John threw his hands up, mimicking frustration, although he couldn’t keep the mirth from his tone. “Utterly hopeless.”

They shared only the briefest of glances before Laszlo turned toward the watery light of the street-lamp and hailed the most battered-looking cab John had ever laid eyes upon. An equally battered driver, gaunt as a scare-crow, held out a hand for the fare. Laszlo gave him a coin and ordered him into the heart of the Lower East Side.

When they stopped and John disembarked the rattle-trap carriage, a truly dreary sight spread out before him. It was a portion of the city’s poorest quarters. Assault, murder, and misery were so common-place in these streets that they hardly merited a column inch in the _Times_.

When Laszlo consulted a note-book in his pocket, John realized where they were going. Of course the monster would live among the monstrous. He hoped that there were no more body parts to be discovered.

They walked only half a block to a ramshackle brick house. The entire thing, including the tacked-on back rooms, one of which was Japheth’s, shared a single outhouse. Its reek grew stronger as they traversed the muddy rear yard. After Laszlo’s example, John resisted pulling his handkerchief from his pocket and pressing it to his nose to filter the stench, but it was so awful it made his eyes water.

The door was unlocked, its only security a simple hook-latch on the inside Even when closed, there remained a great gap between the door and jamb. It must have been unbearably cold during the harsh New England winters. The back-alley room was as squalid as any could expect: with grimy rags as curtains and a straw-stuffed mattress, likely crawling with lice, on a narrow iron bed frame. It appeared undisturbed, however. Sara and the detectives had done a good job of hiding their incursion. Either no one had marked Japheth’s absence...or there was nothing of value to steal. Those dwelling in such places tended to keep money or sentimental items on their person at all times, even bedding down with them tucked in the pockets of their threadbare clothes. It was, however, inadvisable to keep eye-balls in pockets.

The thought forced a noise of disgust from John’s throat.

If Laszlo heard it, he did not respond.

Within, the walls were bare of decoration except for a large road map John could not identify. The byways curved in strange places and intersected at odd angles. Of course, Japheth would have kept no mirror—not even the dented square of polished tin that passed for one in these homes.

John stepped closer to the map to read the words at the top. At once, the network of lines made more sense.

 _City of New York Water System_.

Outlined there were the paths of aqueducts beneath the island. “Did you see this?” he asked Laszlo.

“I did,” came the reply, from over by the wretched little bed. Laszlo had found a loose floor-board and pried it up, and was at that moment feeling about in the space below it with his bare hand.

That hand, John concluded, would have to be _thoroughly_ washed afterward.

“I assume this was where he stowed the eyes,” said Laszlo. “And the heart.”

John wrinkled his nose. “Any other... _souvenirs_ down there?”

“Nothing.” The admission was as empty as Japheth’s hideaway. “However,” said Laszlo, struggling to his feet, “the map is of importance to him. Which leads me to wonder why Sara, Lucius, and Marcus all failed to take it.”

“Preserving the appearance that nothing was disturbed?” asked John.

“Possibly,” Laszlo said, raising his hand to stroke his beard and then thinking better of it and brushing it off on his trousers instead. “Or it could be that they’ve committed the same oversight as I did weeks ago. You remember my story about old Professor Hildebrandt and the drawing of the starling?”

John racked his brain for a moment. “As I recall he meant to teach you something-or-other about a different way to look.”

Laszlo nodded. “And a different way to learn. Just as we are learning from Japheth and his movements, he is learning from us. We need not meet to know each other. There is a terrifying sort of intimacy in that.”

The phrasing made John’s skin crawl, and suddenly he was near-desperate to be out of the hovel, out of the Lower East Side altogether. And again he found himself hoping that Japheth’s life would end when at last they crossed paths. Or even found in the act by a roundsman and dispatched. As cowardly as the idea seemed, it might spare Laszlo the agony of having his quarry ripped away just when he was close enough to touch. John, having borne the wounds of deep emotion, had found it easier to drown his empathy in a very deep whisky glass. Certainly after his brother, and then again after Julia, whose departure had so neatly trod on the tender parts of him that he’d made a liquor-soaked vow never to be vulnerable again. And yet, it seemed necessary now that he be pinioned by uncertainty, run through by his concern, without anæsthetic.

Laszlo came to stand beside him, looking at the map. “Sara and the others were right in one respect. Whatever his next move, he won’t return here. We’ll take the map.”

“Right,” said John, raising one hand but re-directing it to rub his chin. He needed a shave.

Seeing John’s reluctance to touch anything within the fetid room, Laszlo pulled the paper down, tearing its corners rather than attempting to remove the nails that tacked it to the wall. He folded it with care along its pronounced creases, but declined to tuck it into his breast pocket.

“I wonder,” said John, “might we make a stop at the Slide? I’d like to ask after Joseph.”

Concern flitted over Laszlo’s face so briefly it was almost undetectable. Once he had schooled his expression, he gave a curt nod.

“You’re worried?” John asked.

“Only because you are,” said Laszlo.

Something unnamable rose within John, making his chest tight. It was reminiscent of the frustration that had gripped him weeks ago during his and Laszlo’s roof-top vigil. As far as they had come together, the feeling drew him backward to those helpless days. A misstep in the case would be disastrous, but he did not feel he could survive giving any of Laszlo back. Then again, the man had given no indication of drawing away. Maybe it was a personal lapse instead—a reminder of haunted days when his comfort lay in carousing, then drinking away the regret.

“You believe I should have taken Joseph in.” He spat the words at Laszlo despite himself. “Just as you did Stevie.”

“I have no opinion on the matter,” Laszlo said.

John walked faster, pulling ahead, behind him the rapid click of boot-heels in his wake.

“John,” Laszlo said. “John, _stop_.”

And at last John did, pulling up short and whirling to face a man he knew was not his tormentor. His eyes stung and he rubbed them furiously, shrugging up one shoulder to hide the gesture.

Laszlo placed a gentle hand on his bicep. “You have no blame in this.”

“Damn it all, Laszlo. I should have helped him more. Should have...tried to guide him. To _push_ him.” John raised one hand, curled his fingers into his palm, then let the impotent fist drop at his side. “I’ve no instinct for this.”

“Nor do I,” Laszlo said.

“Don’t be foolish,” John said, looking off down the poorly lit street. “You’re brilliant with children.”

“As a doctor, perhaps.” Laszlo glanced down at his feet on the cobbles. “I haven’t the, ah, _fathering_ instinct.”

John shook his head, unable to argue the point on either his or Laszlo’s behalf.

“Joseph, I believe, is much like Stevie,” Laszlo said. “Yes, even still. They come from the street, and it is imprinted on them as surely as the manor is on you or I.”

For a moment, John struggled to recall the term. He was sure the struggle was visible in his face. “Organic...selection?” he said at last.

“Just so,” Laszlo said, placing a warm hand once again on John’s arm. “And it follows that those with...fathers like ours...might not have selected to be so inclined.”

The conjecture hit John with the force of a nose-ender. In his less assured moments, he had quite figured that the disaffection he felt was owed to his brother’s death. But James Moore had been an aloof parent at best, often intervening in his wife’s care only to thrash young John for some misdeed. The elder Moore had congratulated his son heartily on his acceptance at Harvard, but had declined to turn up when he was awarded his degree. Unable to recall weeping at his father’s funeral service, John had always assumed it had been a show of strength for his mother’s benefit.

“I suppose not, no,” he said. A notion struck then, and he turned again and asked, “Do you believe it’s the same for girls? As children, that is?”

“Per Doctor Baldwin’s assessments,” Laszlo said, “it is the same for all children regardless of sex.” A pause. “Why do you ask?”

John fielded a brief surge of panic at having disclosed too much. “Well, ah…”

“You needn’t betray any confidence,” said Laszlo.

“No,” John started. “It’s only that...Sara’s father. She’s told me often that he was prone to melancholy. I’ve heard very little beyond this, but I do know it caused him to end his own life.”

“That would almost certainly have an effect on a child. An enormous one.” After gesturing for a while with the folded map, Laszlo at last relented and put it inside his waistcoat. “It may explain her fierce independence. You believe she has no interest in being a mother?”

It was a relief to laugh. “I don’t believe, Laszlo. I _know_. She makes no bones about it.”

Laszlo offered a smile in return. “Then we are all in good company, it seems.”

“Maybe one day we’ll see Marcus married,” John said. “He’s a handsome young fellow.”

“I wish the same for Lucius, if he cares for it,” said Laszlo. His lips acquired a wry twist. “There is hope for those of us who fall short of the ideal.”

John fixed Laszlo with an accusing look. “I’ll have none of that talk from you. Who’s to say you’re _not_ the ideal? Point me his way and I’ll floor him!”

The fact that Laszlo turned toward an empty alley-way informed John that he had committed the grave sin of making the man blush in public.

John ducked his head, trying to quell his smile. “You know, I held it in my fool head for a while that Sara held a bit of a flame for you.”

Laszlo’s expression was comical: half-aghast and half-surprised, with cheeks still visibly pink. “Why in Heaven’s name would that ever cross your mind? I’d hardly be shocked if she still secretly loathes me.”   

“Well, your actions on Pentecost put a stop to those thoughts,” John admitted. “But it’s easy for like to be drawn to like. Sara is possessed of a quick mind, and a sharp tongue to match. It makes me wonder all the more why you continue to suffer _my_ company.”

Laszlo pressed his lips into a thin line below his clipped mustaches. “Are we to stand in the center of the street and wage a war of self-deprecation?”

“Our seconds will have to finish,” said John. “We’ve shot ourselves dead with our own pistols.”

“A duel between Cyrus and Sara would be a fearsome sight,” Laszlo said. “One that I might actually _rather_ be dead than witness.”

John’s smile returned in spite of him. “Then let us never come to that point.” He paused, fingers describing nonsensical patterns in the air. “I know for a fact that you’ve had a paramour or two. Did those ladies simply fail to make measure?”

With a slight and regretful smile, Laszlo shook his head. “Most certainly not. I would much rather have had them as colleagues, though. Such hungry, incisive minds—each expanded my mode of thinking in her own way. For that I am grateful. But we know how the world works, John. Sara knows it too, for all that she fights the prevailing current. I do not know whether the women of my past continue to fight. Sara has made startling head-way into a profession dominated by men. But there is a long road ahead for her sex. I should hope in my lifetime to meet a female alienist, even if on my death-bed.”

“I wish for that, as well,” John said, with complete sincerity. “So there was never any...romance?”

Laszlo’s confusion was endearing. “It’s possible they entertained...wishful notions.” He shook his head. “I, myself, was oblivious. Lost in the work. And taking care to nurture our friendship. Yours and mine—” at this, he tilted his chin higher “—so that even if we should only be good friends through the years, I might still have been close to you.”

Where doubt and the long shadow of horror had previously crushed him, John now felt expanded almost to the point of pain, his heart pressing outward against his ribs. At that moment, it seemed he had never needed such will-power to resist the overwhelming urge to rush to Laszlo, take his hands, cradle him, kiss his face. That they would likely never be able to stroll arm-in-arm in Central Park like most young lovers, or exchange furtive kisses behind the fountain, filled John with a great and lonely regret. The city, he believed, would have hundreds of woman alienists before such public display between men was sanctioned. “Why did you never speak?” he asked.

Laszlo shrugged, unable to raise the damaged shoulder to the same height as the healthy one. “When you and Julia were courting, there was no point.” He sighed. “Afterward...I was too frightened. Or, truth be told, not frightened enough. Only recently have I felt the imminent possibility of losing you.”

“Not even to a wife and a home upstate and a slew of brats?” John asked.

Silent, Laszlo merely inclined his head and raised his eyebrows.

“No,” John said. “I suppose not.” Yet he said the words not with resignation but with the sweet ease of familiarity. Perhaps he and Laszlo had been drawing close for longer than he’d first supposed—like vines in a garden left unpruned, each growing indistinguishable from the other.

“Come,” Laszlo said. “We’ll walk this path to its end, whatever that may be.”

“‘Soon’ is what I hope it is,” said John, matching his stride to Laszlo’s. “A well-lit path is more to my taste.” He gestured to the weak flames of the street-lamps inside their glass housing. Still, he knew just as well as Laszlo did that it would take more than daylight to lift the heavy shadow over New York.

*

When the group re-convened at Number 808 the following day, John was heartened at to hear Sara disclose that they had the entirety of the city’s police department at their backs for the final offensive. Whether New York’s finest would remain outfoxed was yet to be seen. Perhaps more importantly, John believed, only in crisis would the extent of their support truly play out: there was no way to tell whose loyalties lay with Teddy’s new order and whose with Byrnes and his cronies.

In an uncharacteristic display of graciousness, Laszlo contented himself to sit back and allow Sara to go on, filling the chalk-board with her theories for the next attack. Throughout, he stroked his beard thoughtfully, though he did nod once when Sara mentioned the upcoming Catholic feast day. No less a figure than Saint John the Baptist would be fêted on June 24. There was no more likely day for Japheth to strike.

According to Sara’s hypothesis—the logical choice of a venue was Highbridge Tower by the Brooklyn Bridge. The venerable iron structure spanning the river had been the only passage to Brooklyn from Manhattan’s southern end for more than twenty years, and would be so until the new Williamsburg Bridge was complete. All the requisites were present: altitude, a body of water, located in a familiar neighborhood.

And yet, when John looked over to assess Laszlo’s reaction to the theory, he found the man’s face stony, unreadable.

Regardless, Laszlo asked Sara when she finished her presentation to alert Roosevelt of her conclusions. Nervous energy flitted about the room like a flock of disturbed starlings, with excitement and relief intermixed.

“This time,” Marcus said, a hesitant smile touching his lips, “when Beecham makes his ascent, we’ll be waiting to bring him down for the final time.”

Laszlo scratched his beard, infuriatingly noncommittal. “Yes,” he said, almost drawling the word. “We will.” 

*

On the afternoon of June 23, John was in the midst of pruning the hedges in the rear garden when the invitation came. He did so in a set of borrowed work clothes, as an attempt to return to his grandmother’s good graces. It was easier to let her believe that his renewed energy stemmed from forgoing drink rather than from his first serious romance in years. Grandmother had made it known she was none too pleased with John’s habits since he’d ended things with Julia. She had even gone so far once as to label him a “gal-sneaker,” a term more from her prime, at which he could only laugh. More likely than not, she tolerated it because John was her only living grand-child, dear to her despite his copious faults.

Lord, but wouldn’t the old church-bell _pray_ for gal-sneaking if only she knew what manner of tryst her grandson had gotten into this time! That was, if she didn’t fall down stone dead first.

He could say nothing aloud, but within his mind, John was as free as he could be. He ignored the scratchy work-shirt and the heat that sent sweat pouring down his back in favor of recalling every crease in Laszlo’s palm, the softness at the inside of his wrist. The remarkable scent that, in John’s estimation, put the fragrant hydrangeas to shame.

So deep was he in reverie that when the courier called, he lopped off one flowering head entirely.

“Message for Mister John Schuyler Moore, sir,” the boy said. His white gloves were all out of sorts with his patched clothes.

At least John couldn’t make him feel under-dressed. “I’m John Moore,” he said, letting the great iron-bladed hedge clippers fall with a thump.

“Message for you. From a Doctor Las—” the boy paused, squinting at the envelope.

John snatched it from his hand. “Laszlo Kreizler, yes. Anything else?”

“That’s all, sir,” said the courier, but did not move.

It took several seconds for John to realize the boy waited for a gratuity. He patted his pockets. “Damnation. I haven’t a jitney on me, son.”

Bold as brass, the boy said, “I’d take a rose or two for my lady friend,” nodding toward Grandmother’s prize bushes.

John shrugged. _She can’t miss one or two._ He took up the shears and snipped two long-stemmed beauties in a peach hue, the flowers just beginning to unfurl.

Pleased, the boy went on his way.

John dusted his hands off on his trouser-legs as best he could. Still, his fingers left prints in rich soil on the envelope. Inside was an invitation.

 

 _Dr. Laszlo Kreizler_  
_requests the pleasure of your company on the evening of_  
_Wednesday, 24 June_  
_for a production of_

_Falstaff - by G. Verdi_

_Metropolitan Opera House, Box Twenty-six  
_ _Apéritifs - seven o’clock_

 

 _Falstaff_ , no less—which, after an enthusiastic reception in Europe a few years ago, had gone on to be panned worldwide for lacking the height and depth of “proper” opera. It was not, however, wondering how the Metropolitan would add spice to a bland piece, but the date of the invitation that stupefied him. Laszlo could never confuse the date of their stake-out of Highbridge Tower. He either had another plan in mind...or he did not believe Japheth would strike.

If he _did_ take another victim ( _Joseph,_ John thought, but pushed it aside as quickly as he could), it certainly would not be at the opera house. Japheth Dury hunted where he felt accepted; he would stand out in polite company like a bar-room boxer at a girls’ preparatory school. If, indeed, he made it past the gilded doors.

Leaving the hedges half-untrimmed, John stalked with filthy shoes into the parlor to telephone Laszlo.

The man himself was unruffled in the face of John’s indignation. “This is merely a facet of the plan, John. Japheth rarely kills before midnight.”

“You said yourself that he’s changing,” John said, trying to keep a whining note out of his voice. “Are we meant to intercept him in tie and tails?”

“Would you not sacrifice one suit of clothes for a resolution?” asked Laszlo.

John huffed. “I don’t see why I’d need to.”

“We are all pieces in a much larger game, John.” There came a pause on the other end of the line. Laszlo cleared his throat. “I’ve talked it over with the others. They are in agreement with my strategy.”

“Well,” said John, frowning, “I _do_ hope you’ll apprise me of this ‘strategy’ before the curtains rise. It seems nothing more than folly.”

Laszlo offered further mild reassurances. But as John rung off the call, he was left with a single hazy impression: that Laszlo anticipated his cooperation in this venture and would gain it by playing on John’s infatuation. More upsetting still was the fact that he was right. Laszlo was—and would always be—the leader of the investigation, the brain directing the movements of the body. And John was certain that he would rather give up the use of his good arm than miss the chance to confront Japheth. All John could do was allow himself to be swept up in the current, and hope that Laszlo had not made a great miscalculation.

*

However compliant, John was none too happy about the re-direction. He made that fact known as he climbed into the calash alongside Laszlo the next evening. It was grand to see Cyrus back in the driver’s seat, looking none the worse for wear, but John could give little energy to celebrating the fact. On top of the night's unusual excursion, John had discovered his grandmother very much _did_ miss two prize roses.

“I jolly well hope you know what you’re doing,” he pronounced over the noise of the wheels on bricked streets.

“I believe I do, yes,” Laszlo told him.

“ _Very_ reassuring.” John sat back against the tufted leather, arms crossed over a chest wherein his heart pounded. This night could herald the end of their long, bloody hunt.

John was too skittish to partake of the spirits served in tiny crystal glasses to the crowd in the lobby. Itchy in his heavy suit, he followed Laszlo to the mezzanine and his private box.

As they seated themselves, Laszlo tilted his head and whispered: “Look to box sixty-four when you have the chance.”

Too put out to be subtle about it, John leaned forward and craned his neck, scanning the honey-comb of balconies. He nearly flinched when he caught sight of Byrnes—in full white tie with moustaches waxed and curled. The former police chief had to have been watching them, for he raised his glass in a mock salute.

“There are rounders outside acting as footmen and drivers,” Laszlo said. “Our every move is being closely observed.”

“Then they’ll be at Highbridge, as well,” said John.

“Most certainly.”

John tried to avoid giving Byrnes the satisfaction of looking over again. He said to Laszlo, “Then what is our plan? Are we to dodge them at all?”

“Yes. But we must wait for the right moment. I’ve been fortunate enough to have had a preview of tonight’s performance. The company will use...certain innovative effects to shock the audience. We must be the only ones anticipating the surprise.”

“And using it to our advantage,” John said.

During the first act, Laszlo imparted his strategy under the cover of soaring vocals. He and John remained in the box as intermission was called, awaiting the upcoming climax of the second act.

A teasing note in his voice, Laszlo leaned over and whispered, “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you so attentive at the opera.”

John huffed an exasperated breath. “It’s hardly the opera that has my attention.” He chanced a look to his left, seeing Laszlo with a smile upon his lips. With a glance down at box sixty-four, he was gratified to see that Byrnes had excused himself for intermission. Allowing himself to be puckish, John slid his hand over in one smooth motion to rest it at the warm juncture of Laszlo’s thighs.

Laszlo, admirably, did not flinch.

“One day,” John said in a dangerous whisper, “I shall do my best to make it difficult for _you_ to be attentive.”

“Will you?” Laszlo asked. His voice was choked, much to John’s satisfaction.

With no mind to incapacitate him before the moment of their escape, John removed his hand.

“At the least,” Laszlo said, tugging at his lapels and regaining his composure, “I’ll be able to hear the music rather than your complaints.”

John narrowed his eyes. “What on earth makes you think that _my_ mouth will be the one occupied?”

Laszlo drew in a sharp breath, clearly affected by the lascivious promise.

For a brief moment, John could forget urgeny and revel in the simple pleasure of wanting another person.

Too soon, though, his focus returned to the task at hand. The orchestra began to pick out plaintive opening strains and the house lights were cut. When the witches descended on the rotund figure of Falstaff, sweeping out from the wings with a thunder of drums, the stage-lights dimmed until only ragged shadows were visible. John tried to rein in his uncontrolled pulse; his breath stuck in his throat.

Although expected, still the flashes of burning white phosphorus made him grip the arm-rests of the seat. The audience gasped in unison, many a hand flying to many a breast in surprise. The pressure of Laszlo’s hand on his wrist pulled John from his trance.

“ _Now!_ ” Laszlo hissed.

John fought the urge to look down to Byrnes’ box and instead vaulted from the chair and followed Laszlo through the velvet curtains and into the mezzanine hallway. They took passages that John had never seen, twisting through the very bowels of the theatre. The air smelled of saw-dust and sweat.

They emerged to an empty side street, the only other occupant a breeze that had sprung up to toss newspapers around in aimless circles.

“Will we take a cab?” John asked, confused.

“No need,” Laszlo said, moving to cross the narrow lane.

“I don’t—” John began, scurrying to keep up. “Laszlo, wait. For God’s sake! I don’t understand!”

“We won’t be joining the rest at Highbridge Tower,” Laszlo said.

John broke into a run, then, and caught Lazlo by his narrow shoulders, shaking him. “Are you mad? They’ll be in danger.”

“I’m keeping them _out_ of danger,” Laszlo said through gritted teeth. “Listen to me, John.”

Desperate and panicked, John nonetheless let go, his hands curling into impotent fists.

“The map cemented my theory,” Laszlo told him. He pulled the grimy, folded paper from his breast pocket. “This is the Feast of Saint John the Baptist. As I predicted, Japheth has changed. The necessity of water has become more important to him than the necessity of height. As the prophet brought Christ to the water, so will our Japheth bring his final victim.”

John stood stunned. He closed his mouth, which had fallen open of its own accord.

Laszlo had raised his arm, pointing a finger eastward from the opera house.

Seeing the crenellated walls of Croton Reservoir rising above the tops of the low buildings, John gaped once again. Only a block lay between where they stood on Broadway and Sixth Avenue, which bordered the Reservoir’s western entrance. “So we’re on our own?”

“You and I,” Laszlo said, his voice hushed now. “And Japheth.”

With nothing more to be said, John inhaled deeply. Like Cyrus and Stevie and poor, departed Mary, he would also follow Laszlo into the mouth of Hell without hesitation. His drive was all the greater now, poised as he was on the very cusp of possibility: a lifetime beside Laszlo, knowing him ever more deeply. It was not a future John was willing to sacrifice.

So, as New York’s infamous alienist stepped into the dark and limestone-scented coolness of the reservoir maintenance passages, his sworn friend, lover, and protector came behind.

*

What transpired within the stone walls, after it was all over, would remain forever obscured in John’s mind. The few flashes of clarity: finding Joseph dazed but alive, hearing the twin gun blasts, the shock and gratitude of finding Sara holding her smoking revolver. And—burned most indelibly on his memory—climbing to the cat-walk that stretched between walls to find Laszlo sitting a few feet away from Japheth’s lifeless body, hugging his knees and staring out across dark water.

He recalled his first thought being not of Laszlo but of Japheth’s corpse. Blood drained through the iron grille of the bridge and into the water. That he might one day drink or bathe with water tainted by a madman’s blood filled him with visceral horror.

In the days following, he shunned Laszlo’s company. Nominally, his avoidance was meant to give the man time to mourn the insight into a deranged brain. John even told Sara as much, thinking that someone equally intellectual in nature would respect grief for an abstraction. She did, indeed, express similar thoughts. Most surprisingly, she was unperturbed at Laszlo’s ruse. John supposed it was because she had used her own deductive powers to find her way to the reservoir. It seemed the aqueduct map had not gone unnoticed, after all.

She was more put out—and rightly so—by the posthumous praise heaped on Connor. Roosevelt, in his wisdom, deemed it important to bridge the old guard and the new. Crediting Connor with the kill made a significant step toward harmony.

Visiting Joseph in recovery was a happy task, though John would rather that he had not been in danger at all. He had seen to it that the boy was put up in a clean and quiet convalescent ward while nursing the nasty blow to his head. If a strike from Japheth could bring down a strong and imposing man such as Cyrus, it could wreak more destruction on the skull of a child. Luckily, Joseph seemed to have sustained no permanent harm, a testament to the resiliency of youth.

When John came to sit at his bedside, carrying a paper-wrapped parcel, the boy was fidgeting in his bed. He looked up at John with bright eyes, the disarrayed bandages on his head looking much like a night-cap for a cold winter evening.

John hid a chuckle behind his hand.

“When d’you suppose I can be out of here?” Joseph asked. “The ladies are proper nice and all, but they fuss over me too much.”

“I’m sure you’ll be up and about in no time,” said John. He pulled up the parcel and set it on Joseph’s lap.

With a grin, the boy tore into the paper, sending shreds falling to either side of the bed. The fact that that he likely had never experienced a real birthday or a Christmas morning made John’s heart ache.

Joseph pulled out the contents: two crisply starched shirtwaists, a pair of tweed knickerbockers, good wool socks, suspenders, and a pair of shiny oxblood brogues. His eyes went wide. “I’ll look a right prince on the street in these duds! Have to find a place to stash ‘em, lest some meater nicks ‘em!”

John cleared his throat and ran a hand over his hair. “Well, you see, I was rather hoping I could convince you to accompany me to Doctor Kreizler’s Institute.”

“What’s that, then?”

“A school, of sorts.” John continued hastily when he saw Joseph’s scowl. “It’s not a typical school. Boys learn more about themselves and the world than history or mathematics. And there will be plenty of time for rough-housing and play. No more sleeping on the street. And a hot meal whenever you like.”

This last stipulation seemed to pique the boy’s interest. “Anytime?”

Working on assumption, John said, “Yes. The Institute has a full kitchen. And lovely ladies who might sneak you a bit of ham or a hot cocoa before bed.”

“I don’t know.” Joseph looked down at his lap, rubbing the fine fabric of the clothes between his fingers.

“You might have to give up some freedom, yes,” John admitted. “But you’ll never have to dress up like a girl again, or do things you don’t like with strange men.” He cleared his throat then added: “It’s all right if you do like those things.”

Joseph shook his head. “I don’t really. I liked the scratch, was all.”

“There are girls at the Institute,” said John. “Your age. And not shy, either. Not like the girls I grew up with.”

At this, the boy looked even more keen.

“Fancy the ladies, do you?” asked John.

“For sure,” Joseph said.

John reached out to ruffle his hair, but saw the bandage just in time to pull his hand back. “I’ll make you a deal,” he said. “If you come with me to the Institute, just to see, I’ll give you five dollars. If you like it, you can have a bed there that night.”

“And if I don’t like it?”

Despite the clench in his chest, John said, “I’ll give you five dollars for your trouble. And the clothes are yours, no matter what.”

Gazing down at his lap again, Joseph was silent for a long while. Then he looked up and said, “Thank you, Mister Moore.”

“Call me John. We’re friends, yes? No matter what you decide.”

“Yeah. All right, then. John.” Another pause. “If it gets me out of this damned bed sooner, I’ll go to your Institute right now!”

John laughed. “I’ll speak with your doctor. It won’t be long.” He hesitated before leaving. There was a question he wanted to ask—several of them, in fact—but they were not the kinds of questions he would put to Joseph even though the boy had experience. As he had often done, he used his affiliation with the newspaper to create an untruth. “I’m writing a story,” he started, “for the _Times_. I think you can help me.”

“On the angel man?”

John sat, taken aback. It had not yet occurred to him to catalogue his experience hunting down Japheth Dury. He put the thought aside and continued. “Well, yes. But another, as well. I want to speak with...people who do what you do. What you _did_. Only not boys, but men. Men who...take money from other men...for...you know.”

Joseph’s expression was doubtful. “Not sure they’d want to talk to a newspaperman. A fellow can have the cops down on him for that.”

“So you  _do_ know of these men?” John asked. He added, “I won’t use anyone’s name. In the papers. Just tell, well, a fellow’s story, I suppose. Not all men can make their living in honest ways.”

“That way’s more honest than most, seems to me,” Joseph said. “Ain’t no pretending about what’s done.”

Again, John was surprised at the boy’s insight. “You’re right. Perhaps I’d like to show readers that it’s...nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I get you, Mister—ah, John.”

“Could you tell me where I might find one of these men?”

“I ain’t familiar with any myself,” Joseph said, “but Scabby Gaiter down at the Slide knows someone what sets up fancy fellows together. Knows secrets about the rich folk in the city, even fellows with a wife and family. So I’ve heard.”

“Perfect,” John said. He resisted the urge once more to muss Joseph’s hair, but instead shook his hand and then patted his shoulder before leaving. When he looked back, the boy was unfolding the shirts, marveling.

*

Circumstance and feeling could not keep John away from Laszlo for long. He had not yet spoken with him about bringing Joseph into the Institute. On a fine late-June day, heavy with birdsong, John found Laszlo in the office at his facility, the desk spread over with monographs and piled with a sky-line of heavy tomes.

He looked up at once upon hearing the door open.

The smile that greeted John was like a benediction.

“Good afternoon, my friend,” said Laszlo. “Would you shut the door, please?”

John obliged, then seated himself opposite Laszlo, across the great expanse of papers. He placed one hand on the leather desk-top, tracing one gilded whorl with a finger-tip.

Laszlo shot a glance over to the closed door, then placed his own hand atop John’s and curled his fingers ‘round to grip it with assurance. “I have missed your company.”

“I wanted to give you time to—” John trailed off.

“I appreciate that,” said Laszlo. “You know me well. Better than anyone.”

John stroked the side of Laszlo’s forefinger with his thumb. “For my sins,” he agreed, chuckling. “Have you much work to do?”

With a sigh, Laszlo said, “Too much. I have been neglecting my duties here these past months.”

“It seems like half a lifetime since March,” John said.

“It has been, in a way,” said Laszlo. “I am very fortunate to have a dependable staff with whom I can trust the operation of this place.”

John ran a hand over his chin. For once, he had been afforded the time to shave thoroughly. “I wonder if I couldn’t persuade you to entertain the possibility of taking young Joseph in residence here.”

Laszlo fixed him with a direct look. “I would be remiss as a friend and a doctor had I not already considered it.” His face softened. “There is a bed available if and when he chooses to take it. And it must be _his_ choice.”

“He knows,” John said. “As do I.”

“Very good.” Laszlo paused for a long time.

The cry of a news-boy echoed from the street outside. His words were lost with distance and the barrier of the window, but John was almost certain that Japheth’s demise was still the top story.

“Can you forgive me for withholding my true intent on the night of the twenty-fourth?” Laszlo asked softly.

John smiled. “You know _me_ better than anyone, as well,” he said. “I was angry with you. But you lied in order to keep Sara and Lucius and Marcus safe. And Teddy, even.”

“Not ‘lied,’  _per se_ ,” Laszlo said. “Omitted.”

“You’re incorrigible.” John tried to look displeased.

“I’m sorry, John.”

“I’ve already forgotten. And Sara is pleased as could be, would you believe? You’d better look out, Laszlo. She might very well become your equal at this game soon.”

Laszlo lifted his chin. “It is my sincere hope that one day she becomes my better.” He drew his hand away, then. “I did speak to her, to thank her for saving my life. I...told her what I told you. About my arm.” While saying it, Laszlo unconsciously moved his good hand to cradle his withered arm at the elbow. “In turn, with no prompting, she gave me her father’s story. He _did_ take his own life, as you said. Though not without her aid.”

John sat back, stunned. “How’s that?”

A brief flicker of vicarious pain crossed Laszlo’s face. “At the final moment, he failed to aim the revolver properly. The wound was grievous and disfiguring, but not fatal. Sara found him as he was. Given no choice, she helped to guide his hand and end his suffering.”

Swiping his palm over his hair, John was speechless for a few moments. The nagging specter of jealousy rose even though he tried to quash it. Sara had told Laszlo more than she ever had him.

Laszlo’s voice was almost a whisper when he spoke once more. “Sara did not want you to know the extent of her trauma. She is fiercely protective of you, John.”

If it were possible, John’s shock deepened. “My God. She didn’t want to burden me. After William’s death.”

“Sara has nurturing instincts in spite of her denials,” said Laszlo. “These are not, of course, exclusive to the female sex.”

John nodded. It was all he could do, being nearly overcome by the warmth he felt toward Sara Howard at that moment. And by warmth and admiration for Laszlo. Having had little tenderness from his own parents (his father less so than his mother), it remained a source of wonder that his companions in adulthood should so thoroughly consider his capacity and his frailties. “Are you—?” he began at last, stammering a little. “That is, ah...have you been _affected_ by the events?”

Favoring John with another smile, Laszlo said, “It’s good of you to ask. In the moment, I’ll admit, it was quite devastating. Japheth...he faded as I watched. Our first and only meeting was both intimate and fruitless. I clutched his shoulders, shouted at him—the face below all that wild hair still contorted. His affliction followed him nearly to death’s door.” At that, Laszlo looked toward the window as if in need of brightness to push the dark away. “But not past it. In death, he looked peaceful. Somehow, that enraged me more. As strange as it may seem, John, I found myself not angry with Connor for his heedlessness, but at Japheth for giving in to death. I, who insisted he was no mythical monster, believed him capable of expelling a bullet and going on unharmed as if the pistol had been a child’s toy.”

He shook his head. “Ridiculous, I know. I was not of an entirely rational mind that night. My _desire_ and _hunger_ quite overpowered sense.”

John nodded, even though the desire that obliterated his own logic was of another kind entirely.

“And I was angry at him for making me wait, after so very long,” Laszlo continued.

“Wait for what?” asked John. “Surely you don’t expect to meet the man in Hell.”

Laszlo inclined his head. “You know that neither Heaven nor Hell much influence the way I conduct myself. I have little credence in that which cannot be studied or seen.”

“One cannot see the mind,” John said. “The brain, certainly, but not the animating force of a man.”

“No. But its patterns can be observed. Those are as measurable as a water-mark on printer’s paper. I meant that I—and the scientific world—must wait for another encounter with a person so disturbed. Perhaps for many such encounters. I mourn the victims that will pay the price for that knowledge, whether it be mine or another’s to uncover.”

“I can’t ask your pardon for this,” John told him, “but I hope it is some other man who carries that burden. Any but you. Even when I was almost senseless, I was afraid for you, Laszlo. More frightened than I’ve been in a long time.”

Lazlo clasped John’s hand once again. “He terrified me, too. By his appearance and deeds, Japheth was a greater threat than the exaggerated tales of savages from the West. The most remarkable things, John, were his eyes. We looked at one another only twice—once when he was dying. Yet I won’t soon forget it.”

“Why?” asked John, hoping for Laszlo’s sake that he had scavenged at least a partial answer to the riddle of Japheth Dury. “What of his eyes?”

Laszlo took a slow breath before speaking. “They looked just the same as yours or mine.”

*

It was with regret that John departed the Institute that afternoon, for he had been forced to turn down Laszlo’s invitation to dinner. The excuse he gave was the expectation of his attendance at a function of his grandmother’s. In truth, there was no such gathering. After speaking with the distastefully named Scabby Gaiter, John had made an appointment he hoped would give insight into a number of covert acts. Not a word of this arrangement would reach the pages of the  _Times_ , however. Only curiosity—and his profound ardor for Laszlo—drove him to the Holland House that evening.

He felt as though every eye in the posh lobby was on him as he walked toward the bank of elevators. The hotel was new and expensive enough to have the very most current electrical passenger lifts. Compared to the older hydraulic models, these operated in eerie quiet—as if one floated upward on vapor rather than cables and pulleys.

The brass key slipped between his moist fingers, which shook badly enough that he dropped it on the plush carpeting twice. The huge suite was empty. With a measured sigh of relief, John walked at once to the bar, upon which sparkled numerous cut-crystal glasses and decanters. Fresh chips of ice waited in a hammered brass tub. He dropped one or two into a tumbler, drowning them with haste in a good measure of whisky.

When John had downed almost all of the drink, there came a knock at the door. He steeled himself as if for battle. The man standing in the doorway was no gladiator, though. He was slim of shoulder and waist, dressed in a formal suit of clothes. A lush crop of dark, wavy hair—thoroughly pomaded—crowned his head, and only thin, well trimmed mustaches adorned his handsome face.

John knew he lacked for little in the way of good looks, but this young man was nearly ethereal. Silent lest he stammer, he stepped aside and let his guest into the suite. The young man only nodded. He kept his eyes downcast, not looking John directly in the eye. A result of what—breeding? _Training?_

About what tutelage might be required for such an occupation John did not care to think. “Ah, good evening,” he said.

“Good evening, sir,” came the response.

“Oh, not ‘sir,’” John told him. “Please. Call me John.”

It was the young man’s turn to stammer. “Are—are you not Mister Frederick Hallwood?”

In his compromised state, John had quite forgotten he’d given a false name. “Goodness, ah, I’m sorry. I mean to say, well, that is the name I _gave_. But it’s not my name.”

“Understood, sir.” A brief shake of his head dislodged a single curl of shiny, black hair. “That is, _John_.”

“Good, good.” The tension between them was so solid that an onlooker—which John hoped there weren’t any of—might have reached out to touch it. “May I ask your name?”

“Pierre.”

“French.” It was a ridiculous observation.

“Yes,” said Pierre, flicking his gaze up for a moment in an attempt to read John’s expression. “A bit.”

“And the other bit?” John asked.

A mild widening of the eyes was all that gave away the fact that Pierre had not expected the question. “I can’t say I rightly know.”

“I’m English, myself,” John said, half-cursing himself for this ludicrous line of small-talk. “And Dutch, I believe.”

This earned only a nod.

“Would you like a drink, Pierre?”

“If you’d care to discuss...expectations. I would like to find out what you enjoy, John.”

“Discussion!” The word was said too loudly. Pierre, to his credit, barely flinched. “What I mean,” John went on, “is that discussion is what I enjoy. What I _would_ enjoy. To do.” He cleared his throat. “With you.”

Now, Pierre’s expression showed genuine surprise. “You don’t want to…?”

At once, John was desperate to loosen his necktie and unfasten his collar. “Well, no. I’d prefer to, ah, ask a few questions.”

Another nod, hesitant. “About?”

“This.” John swept his hand in a wide arc across the space, trying desperately to indicate _this whole scenario_. “All of this.”

“Pardon me, but—” Pierre started, then paused. “You’d like to do...what I do?” He cringed slightly, then started again. To John’s great surprise, his young guest’s accent and diction changed, resembling that of Joseph and his gang-mates much more than that of a man of upper-class breeding. “I don’t mean that—not to say you aren’t a right fine-lookin’ fellow…”

“Oh, no, no,” John said, waving his hand before him as though scrubbing writing from a chalk-board. “Not...for pay.”

At once, a smile broke over Pierre’s attractive face. His tense shoulders slipped downward and he shifted his weight, now better projecting the confidence and ease of the very young. “I’ve got you.”

Willing himself to relax, John tipped his head to the side. “Your name isn’t really Pierre, is it?”

Pink spots appeared high on the young man’s porcelain-white cheeks. “No.”

“What is it, then?” When confronted with silence, John prodded: “I promise I won’t say you told me.”

A half-smile, bashful as a lad caught pinching strawberries from the cook’s table. “Henry. And I ain’t French, neither.” He looked down at his feet. “Sorry.”

John laughed, at last feeling the stark unease draining away. “Good. I’m not all that fond of Frenchmen, truth be told.”

At that, Pierre-now-Henry grinned and scuffed the toe of his immaculate oxford shoe against the carpet.

“Come on, boy,” John said, gesturing toward the bar area. “Have a drink. Perhaps you can teach an old man a few things.”

“You’re not old,” Henry said, amiably following John, his keen eyes on the selection of drinks. “I’ve had older. An’ I wasn’t having you on. You _are_ a very nice-looking fellow. If you _did_ want it, I’d be happy to—”

“Ah, thank you, Henry,” John cut him off. “Whisky? Gin, maybe?”

“Whisky’s lovely.”

John, who already had his hand around the neck of the decanter, said, “Good man.”

Henry took his drink neat.

John put a couple more chips of ice in his own glass and topped himself off. He swore nothing had ever tasted so good. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

Sharp concern pricked in John’s belly. “How long have you been doing this?”

Henry had taken a big swig of the expensive liquor. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Just a year, sir.”

“John. Please.”

“Right,” he said, looking guilty for the slip-up and not a bit for the rate at which he was downing the whisky. “Habit.”

“Ah,” John said, relieved. “Good. Do you...like it?”

A shrug. “The money’s good.”

“I mean—” with his hand describing aimless circles in the air, John tried to conjure the right words. “I mean, do you enjoy…?”

“Havin’ a brush with a man?”

John swallowed hard. “Well, in as many words, yes.”

“Oh, yeah,” Henry said, convivial. “That I’ve always done. Started with boys o’my own age. Most didn’t turn out the gay bachelor type, neither. Got an old lady now, most of ‘em. Some even children by now. They moved along, so I went ‘round with some older gents what said I was good on my back. Figured I might as well make some scratch doing it.” He paused for a second, palm on his upper chest, then raised it to his mouth and belched behind his hand. “Pardon. Even the best whisky puts my gut in revolt. Good I don’t have it too often. I do love it so, though.”

John waved it away, half-enchanted and entirely amused by the shift from upper-crust toffer to street lad. “No one mistreats you?”

“Depending on what you mean, I suppose not. None has beat me or nothing. Some ask to tie me up, but I don’t let ‘em. Others of us do, but not me. I like to have use of my hands and feet, thank you very much.”

After taking a deep breath and a bracing gulp of his own drink, John said, “But you let them, you know, put their…” he trailed off, ending with a vague forward movement of the hand holding the crystal tumbler.

“Some, yeah,” said Henry with another shrug.

He seemed unperturbed by the line of questioning, which did nothing for John’s confidence in his own abilities but did at least bode well for further inquiry.

“Others want me to put it in them. Some like to use their mouth, or want me to. A few never did even touch me. Just wanted to look on, an’ that’s fine enough.”

Even though most of these acts he had shared with Laszlo, John still shook his head. The idea of a complete stranger… Then again, he had auditioned unfamiliar girls to expand his bawdy-house rotation without a second thought. “And you get pleasure out of it?”

“Sure, most times. There are some fellows what’re fat or got bad breath. One gent, bless ‘im, had so much hair it were like a waistcoat under his duds. But a lot are fine-looking, a few absolutely fizzing—just the kind I like.”

“And what kind is that?”

Henry’s expression was bashful. “Oh, well...mostly fellows what know they’re worth something. Not just the cut o’ their clothes or pricey shoes but something in their shoulders. Bricky.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Bricky?”

“Bricky,” said Henry. “The sort you want to call ‘sir.’” He stared down at his shoes for a moment, then looked up at John again, but fell short of offering another awkward compliment. “And, ah...the sort what has a nice—” When his gaze landed solidly at the front of John’s trousers, the meaning was taken.

John fought back the feeling that he was hopelessly out-of-place. A bit of flirtation could be suffered if he could in the process learn how to avoid mucking things up with Laszlo.

“How about _your_ fellow?” Henry asked, unprompted.

Almost certain the young man was asking about Laszlo’s manhood, John nearly lost a mouthful of whisky down his suit jacket.

“I mean,” Henry added, “is he the type you like?”

“What makes you think I’ve got ‘a fellow?’” asked John, his natural defensiveness rising.

“Didn’t mean to offend. I only figured if you come asking what you’re asking, you might have a gent what you might want to impress.”

Teetering on an unseen edge, John felt indignation warring with helpless curiosity, pulling back and forth like children fighting over a toy. At last, he judged it far better to humiliate himself before a stranger than to ruin a planned encounter with the man he desired.

He let out a great breath. “Yes. That is, I do.” He paused to scrub fingertips through his hair, disheveling it. “You’re a handsome boy, Henry. I’m sure you’ve no lack of suitors. But I’ve only ever wanted one man like this. He—let’s see—he wears a beard. A very neat one. He’s not too tall, but not short. Dark eyes. He doesn’t hunt or play base-ball. I don’t think I’ve seen him run. I saw him fight once. It was disastrous.” At that point, John realized he was rambling, but the words kept pouring out as if a tap had opened in his head. “He’s more apt to tear a man down with words than with fists. Myself included! I swear, the number of times I’ve wanted to sweep him off the street and drop him straight into the East River… But he’s got nice hands, long fingers. Knows more than I ever will. And he, ah...smells good. Better than most things I can name off-hand. If all that makes him the type that I like, then he is.”

Henry’s smile was neither lewd nor mocking. “I think you’re lucky, John. Someday, I want to find a nice gent what only wants to be with me. And ‘im having a good bit of money wouldn’t hurt, neither.”

Pleased warmth fell like a fine wool blanket over John, making his skin tingle. “Thank you, Henry. I do hope you find that, as well.”

His blush deepening, Henry ducked his head. “Let’s see if I can help you.” He raised his empty glass, a prompt.

Dutifully, John filled it. As he was well heeled enough to spend nine dollars fifty on this room for a matter of two hours, he planned not to waste the gift of complimentary liquor. After giving his own glass a refresh, he took a bracing sip and cleared his throat. “As you’re an expert,” he began, motioning with the tumbler, “self-professed: what is the best way to...do what you do? And make it feel good?”

“I do quite a lot. What bits?”

John swallowed hard and used the hand holding his glass to scratch at his temple as he hemmed and hawed.

Mercifully, Henry took pity. “You and your man—you’ve touched one another.”

“Yes,” said John, letting out the breath he’d been holding.

“You’ve, ah, touched his and he’s touched yours, yeah?”

“Right.”

“And,” Henry said, drawing the word out. “Used your mouths?”

John felt quite as if his face were being pushed over a lit stovetop. “That, too. Yes.”

“So you’re talking about going the full way. Greek fashion.”

“I suppose, yes,” John replied, tugging at his collar.

Henry put a hand on his shoulder. “You haven’t got to get poked up about it. I’ve done this near on a thousand times and so ‘as a lot of other fellows besides. I ain’t askin’ ‘cause I aim to put you off.”

“I know,” said John. “I’m sorry—it’s difficult. I’ve never...felt this way before now.”

“You’re grand,” Henry said, his young voice and coarse accent managing to come across as reassuring. “An’ he wants to do it, too?”

“Yes. I believe so. Yes.”

“Right,” said Henry. “It’s better not to force things. Sometimes a fellow won’t give a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ on account of making the other happy. You’ll be best off askin’ him. When you get there.”

When he’d finally allowed himself freedom, Laszlo had been enthusiastic about their liaisons. John thought he would forever remember the crumbling of the wall between them at the lodging-house in Boston. _Flatter than Jericho now_.

But he refused to coerce Laszlo. The memory of cajoling girls in his youth was embarrassment enough. He could only nod in response.

Henry mirrored the gesture. “It’s you wanting to give it, I suppose? That is, put your—”

“Right,” John cut him off. “Yes.” Until then, though, he couldn’t imagine himself on the receiving end of the act. There had been no negotiations with Laszlo. He’d gone and hired a room—and a _man_ —assuming Laszlo would merely acquiesce. Once again, the urge to escape rose. But reason prevailed; at the very least, he could get an idea of technique. His pulse slowed, the fluttering of the vein in his right wrist easing.

“Well,” he managed, “one doesn’t merely…?” He finished the sentiment with a gesture, thrusting his hand forward, fist clenched and forearm stiff.

Henry’s laugh was bright. “Not if you haven’t done it before. After a while, it gets easier. You haven’t got to be so careful and slow.”

“Like…” John started. “...Being with a _girl_? The first time?”

“I couldn’t say, sir.” Henry’s brow creased. “ _John_ , that is. I ain’t never been with no girl.”

“There’s no...blood?” John said, hesitant even to raise the prospect.

Henry’s face went pale. “Jumpin’ Jesus, no! Not if you’re doin’ things right.” His eyes still wide, he asked in a softer voice, “Is there blood...with girls?”

“The first time, yes,” said John, now ashamed of all the maidens he’d despoiled.

His lips twisting with comical disgust, Henry said, “That sounds right awful.”

John managed a chuckle. “Not any worse than anything else having to do with...this.” It seemed his turn to put a hand on Henry’s shoulder, and he did so. “Afterward, it feels good. Elsewise I suspect the ladies wouldn’t keep doing it.”

Henry shook his head, but it wasn’t in regard to John’s statement. “That’s why I could never get behind all that religion claptrap,” he said, taking a hearty swig of the liquor. “No offense meant if you’re a godly man.”

John scoffed. “Hardly.”

“If we wasn’t meant for bread ‘n’ butter, I mean, it’s past me why it feels so good if God didn’t make it so.”

John got a hearty laugh out of that one.

“I ain’t wrong,” Henry protested mildly.

“You’re not,” John said, chuckling, his unease continuing to subside. “So, tell me how to go about this.”

“It’s simple as one, two, and three,” Henry said, holding up one finger after another as he counted. “You’ll need somethin’ slippery. To ease the way. Oil or liniment is good. Not any of that camphorated liniment, though. That’s askin’ for a short night and a long bath.”

John grimaced. Camphor stung the skin and nose; he would rather not imagine what it did to more sensitive parts.

Henry continued, absorbed in his lesson. “Lard’ll do in a pinch. All that matters is you getting a good bit on your finger. If your fellow’s ready, go on and put it real slow where you mean it to be.”

“What does that...feel like?”

Tilting his chin, Henry asked with face innocent as a babe’s: “You ain’t never even put a finger up the back passage?”

Frowning, John shook his head.

“A bit strange, at first,” Henry told him. “If a body’s not accustomed. But also like…” he paused for a moment, stroking a finger-tip over his cleft chin. “Like out at the tracks, when you see the horses, an’ they know the pistol-shot’s comin’—dancin’ behind the gate.”

“Exciting,” John supplied.

He got a grin in return. “That’s right. Exciting.”

The idea was heartening.

“Just move steady, like it was the real thing. Watch what he does, if he likes it.”

A picture formed in John’s mind: Laszlo, nude and glowing, pleasure showing on his delicate face, writhing at the touch. He had to quickly and soundly banish it lest he grow hard. At that, he almost had to laugh: this had to be the first time in a room with someone who gave pleasure for pay when he preferred his cock did _not_ rise to the occasion. A good draught of whisky would help, but he wanted to remain keen, to learn all he could.

“Better yet if you can find his sweet point,” Henry was saying.

“His what?”

Brushing a hand over his oiled curls, Henry stammered. “Ah, the sweet point. It’s up inside. Every fellow’s got one, so far as I know. Not sure o’the ladies, seein’ as I ain’t been with one.”

Skeptical, John narrowed his eyes. “What does it do?”

“Makes you hard as a roof-beam, for one,” Henry said, his eyes widening. “An’ makes you want more. Like someone’s had his hand on you even if you ain’t been touched. I know a fellow who can finish off with only that.”

“You can’t be serious,” John said.

“Hand o’God,” Henry said, raising his free hand, palm outward. “I done him myself to see it. Lovely boy, what everyone calls Tilly, on account of he looks like Teddy Major’s sister. Edward, his real name is. Not my usual kind—I like ‘em older—but I had to see.”

Still unsure, John said, “No doubt.”

With a furtive look, Henry ventured, “If you was here for my, ah, _usual services_ , I’d offer to show you.” He held out a hand. “Don’t want to muddle things up between you and your fellow.”

John was very quickly coming to like the young man very much. He was earnest, even if compromised by his obvious (and flattering) attraction. Henry was fine-looking, as well, but John could think only of Laszlo, his dark lashes fluttering, the clenching and unfurling of his hands with helpless pleasure. “I’m not concerned,” he told Henry with a smile. “What then?”

“Well, if your man likes it, use another finger,” said Henry. “If all’s well, try three. It ain’t so much to get him accustomed to the size of you. A man’s bigger and broader.” He paused, his shoulders pulling upward. “Usually. It ain’t mine to speculate, see. That’s between you and your fellow.”

Although he’d never give Henry the chance to judge his endowment, John felt at that moment compelled to defend it. “I’ve not had any complaints.”

Henry pushed out his breath, grinning. “Took you right off for one what’s got a good length on ‘im. I’ve an eye for it.” He winked.

Abashed, John could only mumble quiet thanks.

“You’ll need all three fingers, then,” Henry said. “But after you’ve had him a time or two, it’ll only be a matter of greasing up your rod and he’ll likely as not let you right in.”

Then, another unexpected image: Laszlo at his broad, leather-topped desk. Only instead of engaged in study, he is turned over it, with John hard as iron behind and slipping inside just as smooth as water. The vision quite nearly bent him double, need lancing through his belly. “Oh, dear _God_ ,” he said.

A chuckle from Henry. “Seein’ it in your head, are you?”

John had to cringe at his own pained voice. “Something like that.”

“Were I a lesser man, Mister John, I’d have a mind to keep talkin’ at you that way. You may not be able to stop yourself from puttin’ me over this bar and havin’ me right hard an’ proper.”

John shot Henry a glare, though his body registered the temptation.

“I ain’t that kind, though,” said Henry, with a little disappointment. “You’ve got someone to go back to.”

“Good man,” John said. He imagined his face was red. “Thank you for that.”

“I ain’t got much more to tell,” Henry said. “Then I can...leave you to your thoughts.”

At that moment, John decided to give Henry twice his fee if he made the rest quick and allowed John to give himself some relief with the remaining time. He nodded.

“Move slow when the time comes,” Henry began. “Let your fellow do the guiding. Most times like this, when a body wants it enough, you ain’t got to do a thing until you’re all the way in.”

John felt sweat begin to trickle from his clammy under-arms. _Saints and prophets_ ... _the idea of finding himself pressed tight against Laszlo—not only close but_ inside _._ “What does it feel like?” he managed.

“Tight,” Henry said at once, his eyes sparkling with his own desire. “Smooth. Not like a fellow’s hand what seems to come and go, but pressing all over. From there, a man does what he’s apt to do when he’s got his peg in anything.”

“Do you, ah...finish inside?” John asked, his voice strained.

“Depending on what a fellow likes, sure,” said Henry. “Some gents prefer that, some prefer you pull yourself out first.”

As badly as John wanted to find his fulfillment within Laszlo, he could easily imagine drawing himself out and painting that pale skin with his spend. “Christ…” he whispered.

“It’s my policy, unless a fellow asks for it, that he goes first,” Henry was saying.

The noise inside John’s skull was like a gramophone needle trailing in blank wax.

“And your hand’s already got a bit of slip so’s to help things along.”

With great effort, John straightened his spine. “Henry, old boy, you’ve been a treasure.” He fumbled in the inner breast pocket of his jacket for his bill-fold.

Henry’s eyes lit up when he caught sight of the twenty-dollar note.

“All yours, my good man,” John said.

Henry took the paper note with quick fingers and slipped it into a hidden pocket But he did not move at once to leave the suite. “We have some time yet, if you like,” he said instead, in a tone more innocent than his intentions. “It’s only just a quarter past.”

“I think I’ve got what I need, thank you.” John tried not to be dismissive.

Henry’s nod was solemn. But, true to his word, he declined to push the matter. “Thank you, John,” he said. “Your fellow—he’s a lucky man.”

“Yours will be, too, Henry,” John said with full sincerity. “You’ll find one another. You’re only young still.”

Henry only nodded again, then set his glass down with a clatter on the bar-top and walked toward the door. A single look back, a brief raise of his hand, and he was gone.

John exhaled, sagging against the bar. He tossed back the remaining whisky, which lit a fiery trail down into his belly. Arousal returned with dizzying force. Gasping for relief, he tore at his trousers, half-stumbling to the bed-side. He had barely to touch himself before he was in the grips of a violent orgasm, sullying the fine carpet. After a few moments catching his breath, he sat up. One more glass of the excellent tipple would hurt no one. A half-hour remained until his time was finished.

John had to laugh thinking about the next client to engage “Pierre’s” services. Henry had been far more entertaining than his _nom de guerre_.

At the bar, beside the young man’s empty glass, he saw a small tin. Inside was a pale substance with a slight sheen and a pleasant herbal odor. When he dabbed out a bit and rubbed it between two fingertips, it was quite slick, melting into liquid.

After one look at the ornate mantel clock, John was back on the bed and shedding his shoes.

He used every remaining minute, having gained a new sensation or two. _Sweet point_ , indeed.

*

 When outside on the street, though, John disliked the prospect of spending a restless night alone. After debating with himself during the entire carriage ride back to his grandmother’s house, he fairly ran to the telephone to ring Laszlo’s house.

 _If inviting himself over without notice lay beyond the bounds of decorum, then decorum be damned_. Thankfully, Laszlo had no qualms about being roused from his solitude, and agreed that John should join him with all possible haste.

John’s heart knocked against his ribs, echoing in his ears as he ascended Laszlo’s front steps.

Laszlo came to the door in motley: a pair of pressed trousers and a shirtwaist, overlaid with a worn house-coat. His hair, absent any dressing, fell in soft curves on either side of his face, brushing his high cheekbones. His eyes were sleepy, his face somber.

John was captivated. “I see you’ve dressed for the occasion,” he said, reaching out to run his fingers along the satin lapels of the house-coat.

This earned a smile. “If this were truly an occasion, you might have brought a bottle of wine.”

“Your cellar out-ranks my bill-fold,” John said in retort.

Laszlo shook his head, then stepped backward and gestured toward the cool, dim interior.

John removed his hat and stepped over the threshold into what seemed a different world. The stubborn heat outside was left behind. It was nearly July. John had an urge to pack up his bathing-costume for the week-end and go to Coney Island, to smell the fish cooking and wade into the cool surf.

“Would you care for a drink from my cellar?” Laszlo asked, closing the door behind him.

“Would _you_ believe I’m considering boarding the water wagon for a while?” John countered.

Laszlo’s wry expression was poorly suppressed. “I would not.”

“Well, perhaps just reducing my consumption,” admitted John. He wanted no more liquor that night.

A thick silence hung between them for a moment. Laszlo looked toward the curtained window at the far side of the sitting room. Moonlight played over the hedges outside. “It’s warm already. I believe the summer might be a hot one.”

John nodded and walked over to place his bowler over the banister-post. It swayed like a bell in a tower. “I believe you’re right.”

Unprompted, Laszlo announced, “I’ve asked Stevie and Cyrus to give me a few hours alone this evening.” He attempted to slide his hands into the pockets of his house-coat, one hand missing it and sliding away.

John tried not to laugh. “It’s a beautiful night. Bright as day out there, or nearly. A good night for dancing.”

Laszlo’s brow creased. “I don’t dance.”

John approached him softly, using one thumb to brush a lock of hair from his brow. He swore he could do that forever, only to see the shiny dark strands swing back over that noble forehead. “I promise I’ll never ask you to. We may as well stay here forever. Let the world crumble. Manhattan can be swept away for all I care.”

Laszlo took a step backward, giving John a skeptical scowl. “I rather value my carriages.” He raised his chin slightly. “Besides, can _you_ give a rendition of _Lohengrin_? I find it doubtful.” He appeared to allow John to languish in uncertainty for a second or two before letting the wicked smile overtake his face.

“Oh, you’re a proper prick,” John said, shaking his head.

“I know no other way to be,” said Laszlo, stepping forward once again, closing the small distance between John and himself.

“Please don’t try,” said John, fondness stealing the sharp tone from his voice. He ran his fingers into Laszlo’s hair, letting them come to rest at his nape.

“Would you kiss me, John?”

 _Whenever you ask,_  he wanted to say. _I want nothing more._ Instead of speaking, he bent and put his mouth on Laszlo’s—lingering, but not hesitant. With a cool palm coming up to rest on his cheek, he deepened the kiss, finding willingness and pleasure.

“Let me take you to bed,” he whispered against Laszlo’s lips.

Sweet breath over his skin. “Make me forget...all of this,” Laszlo said.

They ascended the staircase with fingers intertwined—neither one leading or following. Inside the bedroom, John knelt at once to unfasten Laszlo’s shoes and then his own. The moments that followed were a shadow-play by the bed-side lamp: fingers deft on buttons, fabric crumpling, hands reaching to touch skin. Before John shed his trousers, he removed from his pocket the little tin and placed it on the side table.

Its presence did not go unmarked. “I’m not a man who, ah, trusts easily,” Laszlo started, haltingly, gripping John’s shoulder as if for reassurance. “I’ve prized self-sufficiency above all else. Among other things, it has caused me to mistake friendship for dependence.”

“I’m well acquainted with your faults,” John said, then stroked his cheek. “ _And_ the virtues you perceive as faults.”

Laszlo shook his head. “I’m trying to tell you that I trust you, you great—”

John stopped the words with a firm kiss. “Again,” he said when he at last released Laszlo, “I _know_.”

No further words came, as none were necessary.

With steady breath, Laszlo slipped his shirt from his shoulders, baring his weaker arm.

John seized the hand and kissed it, reverent and appreciative. Then he took the elbow and brought Laszlo to the bed-side.

When he went to lay back, John guided him instead to kneel on the mattress, by the bedstead. Eager to reassure, John mounted the bed behind him, pressing their bodies together and kissing Laszlo’s neck and shoulders. Bearing him up. He swallowed back his fear and whispered at the soft edge of Laszlo’s ear: “Do you want this?”

“Yes,” came the reply. “For longer than I’ve cared to admit.”

“I—” John tried, searching for adequate expressions of the tumult in his head. He sighed, his breath fluttering the ends of Laszlo’s hair and raising gooseflesh on his skin.

Laszlo half-turned, his color high as the light hit upon his striking profile. “You needn’t say anything,” he said, and placed one hand on John’s wrist.

For that, John was grateful. He clutched Laszlo’s trim and mobile body to him, kissing the line of his shoulder as his cock sprang to insistent life. With a press of his lips to Laszlo’s temple, he reached over to the stand and fumbled open the tin. He could feel his heart-beat in his fingers as he gathered some of the salve. Smoothing it over his forefinger, he lowered his hand to find his mark.

Laszlo gave a soft gasp when touched in that most intimate place.

With exquisite care, John began to press inward. Fighting dizziness, he brushed Laszlo’s hair aside and whispered reassurances until his finger was sunk fully into snug, accepting heat and his palm met with the soft swell of Laszlo’s buttocks.

Laszlo made no sign of resistance; he merely grasped at the carved head-board and leaned into strong arms. When John began to move, he allowed his head to fall back, giving up soft breaths to the still air.

In turn, John pushed his face into the wisps of fragrant hair. He drew his hand down Laszlo’s chest, through the thatch below his navel, then upward again. Finding a stiffened nipple with one finger-tip, John pinched it as he might have a woman’s. To his pleased surprise, the act pulled a soft and helpless sound from Laszlo’s throat.

John hummed deep and plucked at it again, earning a quiver that ran the length of Laszlo’s spine. Pressing in as far as he could with his finger while at the same time moving to firmly pinch the opposite nipple drew forth a whine that made John wince with desire.

He rushed to dab out more of the salve for a second finger. It proved no great trial to slip both into that smoothness again. Laszlo’s body seemed shaped to accommodate him alone. To the use of two fingers, the response was extraordinary. Laszlo bent and bowed his spine in languid arcs, muscles trembling under the soft, fair skin. He pushed back against John’s palm, eager and insistent. The fact of it made John so hard he ached. He moved his hips and hand in the same rhythm, suffering for lack of contact.

A short burst of German words from Laszlo. “I don’t think I can...” he followed in English—a rough and hurried whisper.

“I won’t do anything you don’t want,” John managed, trying to fend off a wave of crushing disappointment.

“...don’t think I can wait,” Laszlo finished, his trembling fingers encircling John’s right wrist. “Not any longer. _Please_ , John. I need to feel you.”

Dismay was replaced with need at once. “Yes,” John said, careless and distracted as he reached once again for the tin. “Anything you like, darling. Anything.” The mere act of smoothing ointment over his cock brought both agony and relief. Pausing, shaking with anticipation, he held Laszlo close and placed a line of kisses from shoulder to elbow, along the bad arm. The flesh there was insubstantial, the bones prominent under his lips. Then, he guided himself, drawing a deep breath.

He felt Laszlo inhale at the same moment.

The room fell so hushed as John began to enter that the rumble of passing cabs could be heard from the street. Even still, the sound seemed removed, as music from the shore comes to men on a distant ship. Perhaps he and Laszlo were the ones caught in the deluge, John thought, swept up while the rest of the city lay calm.

John sighed out a rough breath as he breached. Laszlo’s body remained exquisitely receptive, curving into his embrace like soft clay and fitting along every line.

It was so effortless that John failed to realize he had slipped in fully until Laszlo moved. A simple shift of the hips made hidden muscles clench around his cock and he gasped and swore.

“John,” Laszlo said. The tone was gentle but urgent.

“Does it hurt?” John asked.

“No,” said Laszlo, tucking his head below John’s chin while moving at the same time to clutch his slick hand.

John did not care to abuse this uncharacteristic patience. He brought Laszlo’s hand up to his mouth and pressed his lips to the knuckles. Then he drew his hips back. Cool air swirled briefly between their bodies, and then John pushed forward to the hilt, buried deep within Laszlo and reeling from pleasure.

He wrapped slippery fingers around Laszlo’s rigid cock, working in counterpoint to his steady thrusts. The intermittent quivering around his own cock was sensation enough that John barely needed to move as he touched Laszlo. It recalled their initial tryst, though this encounter was as deliberate as the first had been desperate.

John held Laszlo tight as he writhed, his palms on the polished wood leaving damp prints.

A short utterance in broken German. Then: “Yes, love. So close now."

The endearment pierced John through. He pressed his mouth against Laszlo’s sweat-sheened shoulder, eyes stinging. This time, though, he believed he would welcome the tears and let them mingle with the salt taste of his lover’s skin.

A final shudder, and then Laszlo came, giving a loud cry. It was by far the most unrestrained sound John had ever heard from him and it nearly pushed him over the edge, as well.

He bit his lip hard so he could hold back a little longer, watching rapt as Laszlo spent himself in arcs over the wooden head-board. His release was so vigorous that it seemed years rather than days since his last climax.

As Laszlo sagged in his arms, reeling, John felt his own imminent peak. He thrust again, as deeply as he could. “Shall I pull myself out?” he asked.

“ _No_.” It was emphatic. Laszlo moved a damp hand to clutch at John’s hip, urging him on. “Stay.”

John resumed moving, all rhythm lost to a singular goal. The force of his thrusts drove Laszlo forward until his chest was pushed against the bed-stead, which in turn strained toward the wainscoting.

When he could hold out no longer, John tightened his embrace and pressed into Laszlo with all his strength. A deep groan began in his chest and rose upward. He muffled the cry at Laszlo’s nape, his lips against downy skin, and spilled within him. The pleasure seemed endless, drowned as John was in scent and feeling, the receptive nearness of the man he clung to.

Then, at last, the world came back in a rush: a slice of moonlight from between the bedroom drapes, his racing heart, the slide of Laszlo’s shoulder blades against his damp chest.

“Oh, darling,” John whispered, struggling to regain his breath. “Oh, my love.” He felt a hand tugging on his wrist, a spate of kisses over his knuckles.

“I’m here,” Laszlo said. “I’m here.”

It felt unnatural to let his embrace loosen, but John did so, allowing Laszlo to catch his breath. He remained close, however, with one hand on Laszlo’s shoulder and the other at his rib-cage, feeling the expansion and contraction.

Feeling his softening cock begin to slip free, John bestowed another kiss on Laszlo’s shoulder. “Lie with me for a while,” he said.

Laszlo gasped softly as John slid out, then said, “I would prefer not to move for a few hours, if it’s all the same to you.”

John laughed. He rolled away and let his body fall to the mattress with a satisfying thump. “Not the same,” he said, holding out his arms in invitation. “Better.”

Laszlo went to him without hesitation or complaint, resting his cheek on John’s bicep and suffering his ruddy skin to be stroked with admiring fondness. Their legs intertwined with sufficient complexity as to require a feat of Alexander the Great to part them. John certainly hoped that was the correct historical reference. He wasn’t about to voice it aloud.

It seemed impossible that the tousle-haired creature lying nude and flushed and pliant in his arms was the same man as the imperious Doctor Laszlo Kreizler, alienist. This, John mused with satisfaction, was the Laszlo only _he_ could see. He was covetous of the privilege.

“I have a question for you, John,” Laszlo said softly. “Though perhaps now is not the right time.”

“Oh, good Lord,” John said, trying for a smile. “Something mood-ruining, no doubt.”

“Possibly.”

“It’s all right, Laszlo. Ask me what you want.”

He looked down for a moment, then back up at John’s face. “Might this—” Laszlo gestured at their glistening bodies stretched out on the coverlet “—have happened if not for the case?”

John’s smile only faltered a little. “Are you asking me if Japheth Dury brought us together?”

“Not as such,” said Laszlo. His expression spoke of self-chastisement at the question.

John stroked the hair away from his brow, a reassurance. “It took...frustration, I believe. Disruption, even.”

Laszlo nodded. “We had already been forced outside of the comfort of routine.”

“Yes,” said John. He waited for a beat or two. “Whatever it was, _whomever_ it was—I’m grateful. Otherwise I might never have felt _compromised_ enough to have, shall we say, driven the point home.”

Laszlo smiled, but shook his head. “It was nothing I didn’t want. The first time or any time after.”

“That became thoroughly clear.”

“I’m a stubborn man, John. Somewhat set in my ways, if you will.”

John grinned and cupped Laszlo’s cheek, skimming the pad of his thumb over his cheek-bone. “Am I the only person to whom you explain the obvious? I’m no feather to be knocked about by the wind, either. I rarely think before I speak, I’m easily irritated, and…”

“And?”

Giving a loud sigh, John said, “I’m a drunk.” There suddenly came soft fingers on his lips.

“Men change, John,” said Laszlo, tracing the curve of his mouth. “We both have done so in the last few months, and we will no doubt do so again.”

“I suppose it isn’t too grotesque to say we’ve learned from Japheth Dury,” John said.

“Not grotesque,” Laszlo said, “nor untrue. The lessons we learned were not those I wanted or expected, but nonetheless proved themselves invaluable.”

John hesitated, debating whether to voice his next words. Throwing away caution, he asked, “What now?”

“We move forward,” Laszlo said. He set his hand lightly on John’s forearm. “The path ahead is the only one left to us—or to any man.”

Drawing Laszlo’s hand to his mouth, John kissed the center of the palm. “I should like to do so by your side.”

Laszlo smiled, looking unburdened—at least for a while. “That, my dear John Moore, is one thing that will never change.”

**Author's Note:**

> More 19th-Century Slang: A Glossary
> 
> Mutton-shunter: police officer  
> Dust: cocaine  
> Roundsmen/Rounders: beat cops  
> Rib: slang for wife, presumably from "Adam's rib" (so, yes, John casually calls Laszlo his wife)  
> Nose-ender: a hard punch to the face  
> Gal-sneaker: an 1870s term for a male seducer  
> Church-bell: a talkative woman, a gossip  
> Duds: same as modern usage (clothes)  
> Meater: a street term for a cowardly person  
> Having a brush: having a fling, an affair, or a one night stand  
> Toffer: a prostitute  
> Fizzing: the 1896 equivalent of "awesome"  
> Bricky: Proud, courageous  
> Poked up: Embarrassed  
> Bread 'n' butter: Doin' the do
> 
>  
> 
> Historical notes:
> 
> The Brooklyn Bridge was built in 1880, 16 years before the story takes place.
> 
> Even though New York's Metropolitan Opera now resides in Lincoln Center on the West Side, before the 1960s it was at the "Old Met" at 39th and Broadway, not far from Bryant Park, the site of the old Croton Reservoir. The reservoir supplied drinking water for Manhattan. 
> 
> Verdi's "Falstaff" did open to great excitement in Europe in 1893, but did not hold up to criticism either abroad or in the U.S.
> 
> Lifting mechanisms are very old, but the first commercial elevators were steam-powered. Elevator technology advanced through the 19th century.
> 
> Holland House is no longer standing, but it was at the turn of the 20th Century quite the luxury hotel. 
> 
> The term "gay" was in use in the 1890s in the LGBT community.


End file.
